The Veterans
by aiji-mango
Summary: Post-Reichenbach. John Watson leaves 221b and builds a life around the tragedy. Yet the story is far from over, and he just doesn't notice the signs.


John Watson opened the door of 221b Baker Street and carefully shut it again. Mrs Hudson would be sleeping soon, if she wasn't already; he was desperate to offer her any small courtesy he could. She had been a wonderful landlady. He could think of no worse reason to end his tenure of the flat, but end it must. Even if he could afford to pay the rent by himself (which he couldn't), he wouldn't linger. It would feel like picking at the raw edges of a wound.

He looked around. The flat was cluttered, yet not unpleasantly so; shelves groaned under books and sheaves of paper, more of which were haphazardly piled on the desk and strewn beside one of the armchairs. A teacup, dry brown residue clinging to the delicate china, sat on the coffee table. A half-eaten biscuit was propped against the saucer. The door to Sherlock's bedroom was shut, but John knew what he'd see if it wasn't- a spotless room with the bed perfectly made, every wrinkle and crease smoothed out, the closet a black wall hiding hangers spaced precisely two and a half inches apart in its belly.

The dim yellow light from the lampposts outside filtered through the curtains and cast a hazy, sleepy sheen on everything.

Something cold closed around his heart for a brief instant and John hurled the teacup across the room. It smashed and fell to the floor with a dismal tinkle, leaving no discernible mark on the patterned wallpaper. John regretted the lapse in his self-control almost immediately.

He had to leave.

The flat was too full of Sherlock's things. His clothes, his glass paraphelnia, books with titles like _Dr. Hernikz's Complete Encyclopaedia of Poisons vol. VII._ The walls themselves seemed to breathe for Sherlock. John himself had next to no use for everything his friend had collected over the years. And now, with Sherlock d… with Sherlock never coming back to 221b, John found he hated it. How dare this flat, this living space that should be a place of refuge and peace for its occupants, still look like it was the home of two best friends, like one of them was just running late from a trip to the store? How dare it remain, in its state of comfortable stasis, while John's world had tilted on its axis with the agony of Sherlock's passing?

John shrugged off his coat and tossed it on his armchair. Then he gathered up the shards of the teacup, not caring when he got a cut on his finger, and dumped them in the bin.

* * *

><p>"You are <em>certain<em>, John."

"I am."

Mycroft Holmes fixed him with a level look as he stirred another sugar into his coffee. John's own cup steamed gently on the table, untouched.

"You don't have to leave, you know." Mycroft's gaze didn't waver. "I can make arrangements. You will not need to pay more for the rent than you did when my brother was alive-" John's fist curled on his thigh before he forced it flat again "-and Mrs Hudson will get the money she is owed, without any problems. You just have to say the word."

John shook his head slightly. "No. I still want to move out, Mycroft." He didn't really, in his heart of hearts. But even if he gave away and sold all of Sherlock's things, or just threw them away, the flat would still be _his and Sherlock's, 221b Baker Street._ If you took away the brain, the skull was still a skull.

Speaking of skulls.

"If that is your choice, I will of course do anything in my power to help you."

_You'd get me a room in Buckingham Palace, would you? Mycroft Holmes, sodding British government._

"I have some suitable places that are currently vacant. You can view them and choose whichever suits you best." At John's confused look, he added, "I took the liberty of exploring all options available if you elected my brother was not a housemate to your tastes."

The silence stretched between them. John watched him, chewing the inside of his lip, until Mycroft began to look slightly uncomfortable. John knew he should be above taking pleasure in Mycroft's unease, but even Mycroft's uncustomary obliging attitude could not entirely make John forgive the role he had played, however unwittingly, in Sherlock's death. On top of that, Mycroft's refusal to clear Sherlock's name using the extensive power he had within the government still rankled. Fuck delicate political positions and public opinion.

"I'll be having a look at them then." he said eventually. Mycroft nodded.

"Is there anything more I can do for you, John?"

"Just take his things when I leave Baker Street."

* * *

><p>John Hamish Watson is aware that he tells lies. The small white ones pass his lips without a second thought, easily smoothing potential wrinkles in day-to-day interactions with the people around him. Some lies are a little more than that. Some are much, much more.<p>

* * *

><p>He kept the skull and violin.<p>

He wasn't sure why, really. Neither object seemed to serve any purpose, since John neither needed the skull to listen to him nor played the violin on any level above 'screechy wailing'. The only bit of musical flair he had ever shown was with the saxophone in high school, but that had passed, as most things did. The skull now sat on top of his bookshelf and the violin rested in its case under his bed.

* * *

><p>Seven months after Sherlock's funeral, the bell at 54 Santin Street rings, and John Watson goes to answer it. He doesn't recognise the man at the door; his face is craggy and lined, partially hidden by a greying beard. He squints at John, apparently as surprised to see him as John is to find this stranger on his doorstep. "Here, you're not Anthony Watts. Who're you, then?"<p>

Normally John might take offense at such a lack of common courtesy. As it so happens, he knows that the man Anthony Watts was the previous tenant at his flat, an old man who died peacefully in his sleep about two months before Mycroft offered him the place. Clearly this is an old friend, come to pay a surprise visit, only to find that the man he expected to find wasn't there anymore. So he silently pardons the man, apologises, explains, and invites him in for tea.

* * *

><p>One day in early August, returning from the supermarket with a week's worth of groceries in his arms, John realises that the customary weight in his back pocket that is his wallet seems to be missing. This is indeed the case, and John curses like the soldier that he'll always be. They must have staked him out, he had withdrawn money the very same day.<br>He doesn't know what to think when a scared-looking young man turns up at his door that evening, stammering apologies and almost grovelling, an impressive feat while holding aloft a wallet. John's wallet, not a bill missing.

* * *

><p>John Watson got used to a life without Sherlock Holmes. He got used to it out of necessity, carefully laying bricks and mortar over the gaping hole that his death had left him with. He didn't like it- <em>oh, how he hated it!<em>- but there was little else he could do. So he returned to his practice, where Sarah was always ready with a warm, encouraging smile. She didn't believe Sherlock had been a fraud, and John loved her for it. He had more than enough of those looks that were either pitying or condescending. _There goes the man who was taken for a ride by the greatest fake of modern British crime._

Mycroft came to call sometimes. John wasn't sure why, because they never seemed to have very much to say to each other. Mycroft would inquire about John's life and well-being, to which John would reply as politely while knowing full-well that Mycroft probably did his research and knew all his answers already. He supposed it was nice of him to come anyway. It was also a very nice change to being all but kidnapped off the street.

The visits he paid to Mrs Hudson, on the other hand, were always pleasant in a decidedly unforced way. The first few visits were slightly melancholy, but eventually they gained the air of a pair of war veterans sharing experiences and supporting each other in the civilian life. There was a new pair of tenants at 221b. "Married ones," Mrs Hudson said significantly with a small sad smile, and poured John more tea.

Gregory Lestrade was another such 'war veteran'. He had attempted to continue at New Scotland Yard, but decided to quit. The conversation John had had with him about it basically boiled down to "I won't eat their bullshit." John wasn't sure what he worked as now, but Greg had said something about Mycroft offering him a job.

The man that had knocked on John's door looking for Anthony Watts came back again. It seemed that John was a better conversationalist than he had previously thought, or the things they talked about were always something he knew at least something about. They talked about wars a lot. They must have discussed everything between World War I and Afghanistan. They talked about current events. The man, who had introduced himself as Jean Truc-Pierre, enjoyed talking about botany and ornithology. On one of his last visits he complained of chest pains and John had tried to offer his medical insights, but had been brusquely waved off. Then the visits stopped and John found the old man's face under the mortuary section in the papers.

Some time after this, Mycroft invited himself over again. It appeared that he had more to inquire about than John's health, however.

"Have you noticed anything strange, or out of the ordinary?" he asked. John's eyebrows levitated upwards, wrinkling his brow, and he scoffed.

"My life is perfectly ordinary nowadays. They closed that bakery shop two streets down, if that interests you at all." At Mycroft's Look, he also said, "No, no I haven't. Why? Should I have?"

He couldn't decipher the look that Mycroft gave him then. The tea was finished with Mycroft asking no further questions and answering just as many. He left, umbrella swinging, while John watched, baffled, from the window.

* * *

><p>AN: Somewhat different from Beyond the Soldier. I may actually write a second chapter to this. _ Which would mean, of course, reunion time. Oh my. Review pleeease?


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